With a shriek that sliced the air, the man lunged at the Japs and swung his helmet full force. With a sickening thud, it connected with the head of a jeering soldier. The Jap’s head jerked back and his cheek split open.
The voices were silenced, and Dan sucked in a breath as a half dozen bayonets were thrust into the GI’s body.
The American soldier straightened, as if in slow motion, then let out a moan. He peered at his stomach, covered the weeping wounds with his hands, and then folded onto the ground.
More cheers. More laughter.
And Dan turned away, his aching chest making it hard for him to breathe.
Twenty-One
60,000 CAPTURED BY FOE ON BATAAN:35,000
COMBAT TROOPS AND 16 GENERALS TAKEN
WITH 25,000 CIVILIANS, STIMSON REPORTS
Washington, April 17—While beleaguered Corregidor continued today to nick the edges of sustained Japanese aerial attacks, the War Department announced that approximately 35,000 United States and Filipino “combatant troops” on Bataan Peninsula were presumably in the hands of the enemy.
In addition, it was stated, the Japanese captured “several thousand noncombatant and supply troops and about 25,000 civilians.” The civilians were refugees who had followed the armies into Bataan from cities and villages of Luzon Island.
Charles Hurd
Excerpt from the New York Times, April 18, 1942
Inside the small office, the commandant was seated behind his desk. Next to him a thick-waisted man stood with a uniform that matched Natsuo’s—an interpreter’s uniform.
Upon Natsuo’s entrance the commandant rose. “I am punishing you in order to set an example for others who dare to show kindness to the prisoners of the emperor.”
Natsuo blinked his eyes, uncertain if he’d heard correctly.
The commandant stepped in front of Natsuo, then proceeded to strike his hand across both of Natsuo’s cheeks several dozen times. The intensity of each slap built upon the one prior, until Natsuo was certain he’d collapse under the pain. Though he tried to remain erect, he felt his body swaying back and forth. It was all he could do to withstand the blows.
“Forgive me! Forgive me!” Natsuo finally called out. Only then did the blows cease.
The commandant took a step backward, panting from the effort. “You are no longer head interpreter. You will report to Iku Yamamoto. Is that clear?”
Natsuo bowed low, feeling as if his head would fall off his shoulders. “Thank you, sir. Thank you.” With low bows he exited the room, daring not to turn his back on the commandant.
Only outside was he able to catch his breath. He deserved this. He’d been a fool, allowing his weakness to stand in the way of what was best for his country.
Natsuo strode away, refusing to allow himself the relief of rubbing his stinging cheeks. What would Father think? What shame if the news ever arrived home.
I will not fail again. He strode with more determined steps. I will not.
The one helping of rice they’d been given sat heavy in Dan’s stomach. They’d been loaded into boxcars—over fifty in a car—for the next trek of the journey from the town of San Fernando to the prison camp ahead. Dan felt short of breath, light-headed, and it seemed there wouldn’t be enough air for the trip.
“If we work together, I think we can sit.”
Dan sank to the ground with his back against Tony’s chest and Gabe’s back wedged between his legs. The doors closed, and the car began to hurtle through the darkness.
Dan wished he could sleep, but the heat was suffocating. Except for a lone, whispered prayer, no one had energy to talk. Some even lost the will to live.
Finally the train stopped at Capas. Dan resisted the urge to push his way out of the car, willing his cramped legs to cooperate. From the village of Capas, they walked the remaining seven miles to Camp O’Donnell. When it seemed as if he had no strength to continue, the faint outline of barbed wire and nipa-thatched huts built on stilts loomed in the distance.
Again Filipinos lined the roads outside the gates. Many young girls with babies on their hips searched the faces of the men, eager for a glimpse of their missing husbands or lovers.
Dan was thankful Libby didn’t have to see him in such a state. She was at home, among Americans, safe—at least he hoped she was. Even in the suffering and tears, it brought a smile to his lips thinking of her soaring above the clouds—maybe even with the U.S. civilian workers.
As they shuffled through the gates, Gabe leaned in close. “Welcome to Hell Hole Number One.”
“I heard of O’Donnell,” Tony commented. “Some of the guys trained here before the war. The water was bad and couldn’t supply eight thousand men.”
“So what does that say for the tens of thousands, half-starved, mostly dead ones here now?” Gabe wiped the sweat from his brow.
A small Japanese guard ran up and down the lines and waved a baton. Dan couldn’t understand his words, but from his wild arm motions it was clear he wanted them to line up in rows.
“What now?”
From there they were pushed into an open marching field and told to place all their possessions on the ground in front of them. Officers walked up and down the rows of men.
Dan watched as the men in line were stripped of all personal possessions—nail files, razors, matches, blankets—anything of value. Anyone who was found with a Japanese souvenir was killed, beheaded by a swift arc of a samurai sword.
Afraid his helmet would be taken, Dan removed the photo of Libby from the liner and stuck it in his sock next to his boot. “Sorry about the smell, Libby girl.”
After the last man had turned over his possessions, a small captain climbed onto a platform before them. The pint-sized Japanese officer wore riding breeches, a pith helmet, white shirt, and highly polished black boots. A sword hung on the left side of his belt, and medals draped his uniform.
“You no honorable soldiers,” he said in heavily accented English. He knocked the side of his head with his fist. “You deserve to die. Cowards! All of you! Your lives are spared by the benevolence of the emperor!” He ranted on for twenty minutes, waving his arms and throwing punches in the air. “Your dead comrades are lucky ones!”
Dan felt his knees weakening under the heat of the sun, and the man’s voice seemed to fade into an echo.
“The Japanese warriors will enslave all Americans. Be prepared! We will start here. Know, cowards, that you must obey all orders, immediately, without question! You don’t deserve to live. Japan will destroy your country, even if we fight a hundred-year-war to bring your defeat!”
When the speech was done, they were marched to a wire-enclosed stockade and turned over to the administration of their own officers. Next, they found themselves led to several dozen billets, which consisted of four bamboo walls, a dirt floor, and a thatched roof.
A room designed for sixteen men was now packed with forty ill soldiers. Cogon-grass mats had been arranged for sleeping, but just as Dan and the others prepared to lie upon them, Japanese soldiers ordered them to be turned in.
“It seems even the smallest comfort will be denied.” Dan sighed. His whole body ached. As the last of the daylight faded, he and the others finally settled on the bamboo floor, overlapping their legs in order to lie down.
“Boys, welcome to our hotel,” the officer in charge called out. “Enjoy a good night’s sleep.”
But sleep was impossible. The sick and dying in neighboring billets cried through the night. For food. For water. For relief from their misery.
Dan rose from his place on the floor, eyeing the others in the room. The roof consisted of grass matting, and the windows were no more than openings, letting in the reek of decay that hung in the air. Bodies continued to pile up by the day, faster than they could be buried.
It had only been a week since Dan had arrived at Camp O’Donnell. In that time, the prisoners had grown weaker, but the guards seemed to have grown stronger. And they relished tall GIs on bended knee
.
The food at the camp consisted of lagao, a watery gruel made from rice, twice a day. It was half rotted before the soldiers received it. They also ate putrid camotes, a type of root barely fit for animal fodder. There was no salt. No water to wash the kettles. No soap.
To obtain drinking water, it was standard procedure to stand in line for six to eight hours a day for a canteen from the single pump. Additional water was also obtained from a river about a mile away. The river was four inches deep—slimy mud into which the overflow of the pit latrines seeped, with only a scum of water on top, which had to be boiled.
“We must do something about the water,” Dan told their group as they finished their breakfast. “We need volunteers—groups of ten men to guard the river and to keep order. We also need to prevent the men from drinking the water before it is boiled. Hundreds are getting diseases.”
“It is the young ones who are sick and dying,” Gabe interjected. “They don’t know or care about the importance of clean water.” He leaned against the bamboo wall. “Some were sent here with only a few weeks of basic training, so they don’t know that it’s the stuff you can’t see that will kill you.”
“Let’s do something about it. We can get the other groups to work together.” Dan’s hand trembled as he returned his spoon to his empty bowl, but he tried to ignore it.
“Why us?” Gabe’s head seemed to flop on his shoulders as he turned to look at Dan. “Let someone else organize things.”
“And let more people die? Come on. It’s better than just sitting around all day listening to the growl of our hungry stomachs. Besides, it’s either water duty or corpse duty. Your choice.”
Dan strode outside the building, hoping that others would follow. He scanned the enclosed area, actually missing their time in the foxholes under the trees. Although Camp O’Donnell sat in the middle of a lush jungle, it was treeless. In fact, the only sign of vegetation were the weeds that grew everywhere.
Dan covered his mouth and gagged as a horrid stench overpowered him. He willed his rice to stay down, at the same time standing at attention.
Four fellow prisoners passed Dan, carrying bodies in blankets that had been strung over a pole. A Jap guard followed close behind these stretcher bearers. “Speedo! Speedo!”
Humming along with the funeral procession were black and blue blowflies. Dan swatted as one buzzed around his face, and wished he could swat so easily at the menacing guards.
Twenty-Two
AT OUR ENEMY’S HEART
Tokyo bombed! Yokohama bombed! Kobe bombed! After four months of defeats in the Pacific War these words have abruptly electrified the pulse of America and started a chain of repercussions throughout the world. Up to the moment of this writing, to be sure, all the news has come from Tokyo itself; there is not a word of confirmation from any American, Chinese, or Australian source.
The important thing is that the battle is being carried to the very heart of the enemy. He is literally being “hit where he lives.”
Excerpt from the Washington Post, April 19, 1942
The group of Brits and Australians squatted in a vast semicircle in the dusty main square of their camp as they did every Sunday morning, chattering as they waited. It had been two months since they were brought here, and their European fashions, once crisp with starch, were now brown, clinging to their bodies like used dishrags.
Natsuo watched as a mother tickled her small toddler, and his innocent laughter carried among the voices. How can he laugh in this place?
The day was bright and clear, the sun casting golden rays on the small huts surrounding the square, but a storm cloud filled Natsuo’s thoughts.
After everyone had assembled, one thin Englishman, Charles Hayward, wearing a tattered, double-breasted suit, stood to speak. “America has bombed Japan.”
Excited gasps sounded from the dusty group.
“A group of planes has attacked Tokyo in retaliation to the bombing of Pearl Harbor. That is all I know.” He returned to his seat on the ground and lifted his hands, fending off questions.
Though no one dared cheer the announcement, Natsuo clearly noted pleasure in their eyes. A woman next to Natsuo nodded to her neighbor with a slight smile. She turned, expecting to see another prisoner behind her, and spotted Natsuo. The woman’s eyes grew wide, and the color drained from her face.
Natsuo lifted an eyebrow, and though his chest constricted with the news, he would not let these English see his rage. He offered a small smile in return, and the woman quickly looked away.
Most had grown used to seeing Natsuo among them. They’d heard rumors of his offered help to Anna, which, Natsuo had learned, was the name of the young Englishwoman. They’d become at ease in his presence, and it was exactly what Natsuo wanted. Like a weasel being welcomed into the chicken coop. It was a brilliant idea, if he thought so himself.
“I can hear more—learn of planned escapes or uprisings.” Natsuo had bowed low before his superior. “They’ll speak more freely to a friend than under a hundred lashes of the whip.”
At first the commandant hesitated; then he finally agreed. “Yes. But alert us quickly when trouble arises! I’d hate to think your motives were anything less than a complete commitment to our emperor. Your honor is at stake.”
“Yes, sir. Of course.”
That was weeks ago, and his plan was working even better than he’d imagined. He was their friend. He knew their names.
When the excitement settled, they continued with their church service. Throughout the English prayers and sermon, Natsuo remained seated with his arms crossed over his chest. He paid no attention to their beliefs. Instead, he sat remembering an old Japanese saying: “After victory, tighten your helmet strings.”
He wondered if perhaps his country had not tightened them enough.
“Why don’t we close our service in a song?” said Dr. Bell, a well-respected physician, as he stood before the group.
“I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless,” they sang. “Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness. Where is death’s sting? Where, grave, thy victory? I triumph still, if Thou abide with me.”
Many rose and stood, their mouths belting out traitorous words. “Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes; shine through the gloom and point me to the skies. Heaven’s morning breaks, and earth’s vain shadows flee; in life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.”
Natsuo rose. Point me to the skies. He laughed to himself. The only thing they will see coming in the sky is their demise.
For even if this one American victory were true, it would be the imperial army who would dominate the air. Children of the emperor, offspring of the Rising Sun.
“May is the rainy season.” Tony peered up at the darkening sky as he helped Dan carry buckets of water to the billets. “Surely, the sky will open soon.”
Finally, around nine o’clock, the sun did release its scorching grasp upon the earth, and the rain fell in torrents. It came as a gentle roar across the jungle, gaining momentum, building into a crescendo.
“Thank God for rain!” Dan watched the water flow outside his hut, turning the aisles between their billets into rivers. “Tell someone to put out the buckets!”
But soon he realized the rain was both a blessing and a curse. With it came the cold. The prisoners huddled together under pieces of tin, ponchos—anything in an attempt to protect themselves.
“You okay, buddy?”
Gabe shivered next to Dan. His teeth chattered. “Never th-thought it’d be cold in this place.”
Clouds covered the sky, and now the only lights came from the spotlights sprayed across the barbed-wire fences. Dan’s only consolation was that at least they had a roof over their heads, while outside the night guards slouched in muddy shadows, receiving the full brunt of the rain. Let them suffer for once.
Dan ran a hand over his matted hair and turned to his side, avoiding the open sore on his left hip. He had another one on his right butt cheek. Sleeping on the bamboo had g
iven him and most of the others these sores, which made finding a comfortable position almost impossible.
When they awoke the next day, the sun had returned high in the sky, blistering hot. It seemed as if last night’s cold spell had been a dream. Dan curved two fingers and spooned rice gruel into his mouth, slurping the tasteless paste and licking it with his tongue.
“Sometimes I think of my mother’s pumpkin pie, the crust just lightly golden and the bottom slightly undercooked, almost doughy.” Dan took another bite. “She always said she should cook it longer, but she never did. She was always so afraid of burning it. Now I kinda like my pie that way.”
“Pie can’t beat my mama’s spaghetti.” Tony closed his eyes, his fingers stopping midway to his mouth. “She simmers the sauce for two days, adding a little of this and a little of that until she considers it done.”
Dan scanned their billet. There were no longer forty men filling their quarters. In fact, their numbers throughout the camp dwindled by the day, especially from the Zero ward, where sick soldiers were taken but never returned.
“I see that Baker and Evans are missing.” Dan placed his empty bowl on the floor. “I’m going to miss their help with the water detail.”
“We took them over to Zero. I don’t think either of them had one conscious moment yesterday. But getting them across camp was quite a feat.” Gabe attempted to brush clumps of mud from his ragged pant legs. “You should see the grounds. It’s like a war zone. The grave-diggers have only been going down three feet deep because of groundwater, and the rain last night washed mounds of bodies back up. And the blowflies crawling in and out of their mouths … I swear, if I ever get time alone with a Jap—” Gabe clenched his hands as if strangling an invisible neck, shaking it. “They will never know who did it.”
Dan glanced at Gabe’s thin arms and knew that even if his buddy had the chance, he wouldn’t have the strength. Still, the same rage flowed through his own veins.
Dawn of a Thousand Nights Page 19